Page 3 of Escape to Egypt

I pulled out a notepad, the paper crisp under my fingers, and began scribbling furiously, detailing every step I’d taken, every move I’d made since I arrived for work this morning.

"Whoever you are, you've messed with the wrong curator," I muttered, tapping the pen against my lips. With each passing second, my initial shock was replaced by a fierce determination. I was going to find both artifacts—the ancient Mesopotamian vase also earmarked for this exhibit that had disappeared exactly one week ago today—and the jewel of Isis, and I would clear my name, even if it was the last breath I took.

Chapter Two

I had barely finished my thought when the museum security team burst into the dimly lit hall, their shoes echoing off the white marble like a judge's gavel. Stern expressions were etched on their faces, and their questioning gazes raked over me as if certain I had something to hide. I swallowed hard, feeling like an artifact being examined for a fake.

"Charlotte Bray?" asked a stocky man in a dark-blue uniform with a mustache that seemed to bristle with authority.

"Y-Yes, that's me," I stammered, clutching the edge of a podium for support.

"I’m Joe Tamburello, head of security here. Please step away from the equipment, ma'am,” he said, catching my elbow in his firm grip. “This way."

He and two other officers herded me out of the exhibit hall, and I could feel my career crumbling faster than ancient ruins. My heart raced; it was one thing to talk about dramatic heists in a lecture, quite another to be swept up in one.

Before I could process the surreal turn of events, the blue and red strobes of police lights painted the museum walls. Local authorities swarmed the lobby, their radios crackling with a sense of urgency that did nothing to ease my anxiety.

A stern-faced woman in uniform approached me, her badge glinting under the foyer chandelier. "Ms. Bray, we need you to collect your personal items from your office. Now."

"Am I being arrested?" I asked, the words tumbling out before I could rein them in.

"Not at this time. But we need to clear the premises and conduct our investigations without interference," she answered, her eyes as unyielding as the pair of steel handcuffs that glinted at her belt.

Under the watchful gaze of what felt like every member of New York's finest, I returned to my office—a sanctuary of artifacts and history now tainted by suspicion. I packed my belongings into an empty box: photos of past exhibitions, a dog-eared copy of 'The Complete Tutankhamun', and a snow globe from a conference in Rome—the treasures of my professional life reduced to cardboard captivity.

"Is all this really necessary?" I tried to keep the tremor out of my voice and the tears that threatened to spill over from falling.

"Standard procedure, ma’am," replied a young officer who looked like he'd be more comfortable battling spreadsheets than crime.

With the box in tow, I was then escorted to the precinct. Questions flew at me like arrows, each one trying to pierce the truth—or what they thought was the truth. Was I involved? Did I know anything about the stolen relics?

"Look, I love history, not heist movies," I finally blurted out after hours of interrogation. "The only thing I've ever stolen was extra cream cheese for my bagel at the cafeteria once."

After what felt like an eternity, they allowed me to go home, but not without a parting shot straight to the bow of my sinking spirits. "Don't leave town, Ms. Bray. We'll be in touch."

Stepping out onto the street, I hailed a cab with the enthusiasm of someone flagging down a ride to their own execution. As I settled into the backseat, my thoughts raced. I had to fix this. I had to clear my name. But first, I needed sleep, even if it would be only a fleeting refuge from the reality that was quickly turning the story of my life from a happy-ever-after to a tragic tale.

***

The first fingers of dawn were prying open the night sky by the time I stumbled into my apartment, a cramped little space that seemed to mock me with its clutter and confinement. The door creaked in protest as I shut it behind me, leaning against the wood for support, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders.

"Home sweet home," I whispered sarcastically to no one, kicking off my shoes and leaving them at the entry as I made my way like a zombie to the bathroom. Flicking on the overhead blub, I stared my reflection in the mirror. My dirty blonde hair was a mess, sticking out at angles defying gravity, and my eyes—once sharp and hazel—were now red pools of defeat. In my business casual attire, now wrinkled and as tired as I felt, I looked like the poster child for a hot mess.

After mustering enough energy to wash up and change into my softest pair of pajamas, I collapsed into bed, the smiling faces of my parents from their fiftieth wedding anniversary gazing at me from the framed photo I kept on my bedside table the last thing I saw before I clicked off the light.

A surprise baby, my parents used to say, born when they had already settled into the comfortable notion that it would be just the two of them, forever. They were solid, blue-collar through and through, and now they spent their golden years in assisted living, relying on me—their college-educated miracle—to make them proud.

"Can't let you down," I mumbled, pulling the thin blanket over myself. Sleep tugged at my consciousness, and as slumber took me, tears escaped, tracing salty paths along my cheeks. I cried until dreams mercifully enveloped me in their numbing embrace.

But peace was short-lived. A loud knock jolted me awake. Had the police come back already to haul me away again?

"Coming," I croaked, voice hoarse with sleep and sorrow. I dragged myself to the door, checking the peephole before unlatching the locks. It wasn't the police or the ominous figures that haunted my frazzled mind. No, standing on the other side, was an unexpected visitor—one that would either add to the comedy or tragedy of my current predicament.

Blinking against the harsh light of the hallway, I squinted up at my on-again, off-again boyfriend’s face. His expression was one of irritation, but his dark hair was a tousled mess, as if he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times through it.

"Charlotte, you didn't answer any of my messages,” Dean said. “Look, I know I’ve messed up more than once, but I genuinely care about your welfare. Seriously, I was about to call in the cavalry.”

"Sorry, I—" The words caught in my throat, a dam holding back a flood of dread and embarrassment. My apartment seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as I faced him. Despite the fact Dean and I seemed to have different definitions of monogamy, he was still the best friend I had.

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